


Girly Drinks: Five Times Nate Got White Girl Wasted When Wade Was Trying to Get Gay

by SenkoWakimarin



Series: Author's Recommendations [22]
Category: Cable and Deadpool, Deadpool - All Media Types
Genre: Drinking, Drunkenness, M/M, Nathan Summers is a Cheap Date
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-25
Updated: 2019-05-30
Packaged: 2020-03-17 12:22:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18965158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SenkoWakimarin/pseuds/SenkoWakimarin
Summary: Exactly what it says on the tin. Five times Wade accidentally got Nate drunk instead of getting them both laid.





	1. Zombie

**Author's Note:**

> Majorly influenced by Inbox's theory that Nate would be a lightweight when it comes to alcohol, so thanks to Inbox. Thanks also to the Cablepool server for enabling me.

Realistically, Wade probably should have expected this. 

The guy was half metal. Wade would have thought, for the big manly, brooding-alone-at-the-bar-after-a-harrowing-battle, Nate would be the kind of heavily augmented guy who’s robo-bits made it so he had a super high tolerance. Plenty of scenes of him throwing back way more whiskey than was wise for normal dude.

But oh, no. No, _that_ would have been fun. 

“Ro’runner was right, Wa’e.” Nate mumbles against Wade’s ear, leaning heavily against him, 350lbs of muscle and metal and psionic potential, slopped over  white-girl wasted style against Wade, mumbling actual sweet nothings in his ear. For a given value of sweet.

There’s half a perfectly good Zombie sitting at Nate’s elbow, and he’s already three sheets to the wind. Wade had thought giving the big guy a drink with that much fruity cover-up would be funny, a real test against his whole 'I'm from the future where the rules of gender and sex are different' superiority schtick -- that  _had_  to be fake, right? The guy was carved out of the asscheek of every gun nut right wing American fantasy, there was no way he was legitimately that cool about things like gender roles and whatnot. 

"This isn't very Liefeld of you, buddy," Wade grunts, trying to push Nate to sit upright. So far their little post-big-fight, pre-going-seperate-ways drink date was the worst kind of bust. Somebody was going to get walked home, sure, but it wasn't Wade and no one was getting kisses. 

Propped up for a second, Nate almost immediately slouches forward, bracing himself against the bar. His eye wanders, and it's kind of fun to watch the gears turn as he takes in the jar of pickled eggs, the napkin dispenser, and then finally his own half-finished drink. Wade can see recognition dawn and then a sort of greedy comprehension, and he only just manages to snatch the cocktail out of Nate's reach. He really doesn't need Nate puking all over. 

Or succumbing to alcohol poisoning. At least not on his watch.

Nate's groupies really don't need another excuse to be giving Wade the stink eye. 

"Heyyy," Nate actually whines, reaching after the drink with a drunk's half-hearted passion. Maybe this wasn't a total bust. "S' mine..."

Wade laughed, holding the drink up out of Nate's reach. "Yeah, big negatory on that one, big guy, I think you've had plenty."

Nate blinks at him, eyes comically wide under drawn up brows, that big square face a picture of puzzled innocence. "B' I'm thirs'dy."

Gesturing over the bartender, Wade asks for a couple glasses of water. He puts the umbrella from the Zombie in Nate's glass and slides it over to him, which seems to content the big drunk idiot well enough so Wade can swallow the deceptively mild tasting alcoholic mess while Nate is distracted with the ice cubes. Even he feels a little something, at least for a moment, as the alcohol blooms in his chest, but it fizzles quickly. 

"You know wha'  _ I _ think," Nate says as Wade's setting the cocktail glass back on the bar. His expression is what Wade wants to call 'drunk sly', and this time when he slumps over on Wade, Wade's pretty sure it's a calculated move. He laughs, and it's only a little nervous, getting his arms around Nate to keep him from spilling off his bar stool. It ends with Nate sagged heavily into Wade, chin settled on Wade's shoulder. "Wa'e, d'you... d'you know what  _ I _ think?"

Wade laughs again, mostly because Nate's breath against his ear tickles, but also because pressed close like this, Nate's low, grumbly drunk voice reverberates through his chest to rumble Wade's bones. "What d'you think, bud?"

"I think we sh'd go home," Nate says, lips moving right under Wade's ear. "Y' sh'd take me home..."

Nate's hand clumsily closing over Wade's thigh adds all the context Nate seems to think Wade might be missing, as if panting in Wade's ear to be taken home didn't paint a series of lurid murals in Wade's brain of exactly what Nate was hoping for.

"Oooh, Nathan," Wade chuckles, helping the larger man to his feet with a groan, supporting him and steering them both for the door. "You messy fucking bitch. Lets both be glad I'm such a good guy."

One nice clean bodyslide later, they're tottering through Nate's nice, clean apartment, Wade definitely not hip-checking anything off tables or knocking books off the shelves as he guides Nate to his own  _ horrendous _ spartan bed. Nate clings like an octopus when Wade makes him sit down, but Wade has always been hard to keep a grip on and given that he's drunk, Nate doesn't stand much of a chance. 

When he comes back with a glass of water, Nate's managed to get one boot off, the other left dangling off the bed as Nate starfishes across the mattress. "I'm  _ very _ tired," Nate slurs at the ceiling. Even his glowy eye is dim now. It's kind of cute, and Wade sighs, setting the glass on the bedside table. 

"Oh just wait for tomorrow," Wade promises, squatting down to pick the knot out of Nate's boots, loosening them up so he can slide them off. The guys from the future and he's still using laces. Hasn't he ever heard of zippers? "I'm guessing your shiny ass doesn't do many hangovers. Oooh to be a fly on your bathroom wall tomorrow morning. Or maybe not."

The boot thuds against the rug and Wade stands back up, swatting Nate's leg so he draws it onto the bed as well. Nate's eyes are half-closed and completely unfocused, watching light play on the ceiling from whatever passes for nightlife on this lame-ass vegan paradise. 

"You sh'd... stay..." Nate says, eyes slipping closed for a minute in the middle, like keeping them open is just too much effort. Wade decides not to examine the squirmy sort of want that bubbles in the more lizard-y parts of his brain. Nate's a big guy, all grown up. If he wants Wade to stay...

"Yeah, probably not. As much as I would  _ love  _ to see you hungover, I think your Ms. Merryweather would literally skin me alive if she found me in your bed. Not that you can skin me dead with the healing factor but -- hey! Grabby hands!"

Nate snatches his wrist and jerks him down into the bed with him. Wade only keeps himself from tumbling right into Nate's bulky frame by bracing his hand against one shoulder and hovering over him. Nate's grin is lazy but kind of cute, just a little teeth showing. Wade bets his mouth tastes good even after he's been drinking all night.

Okay he had half a cocktail, maybe that's a hedged bet.

It would still probably taste good. 

"I can make... I can..." Nate  trails off, eyes closing again, and Wade doesn't think it's unreasonable for his heart to seize up a little. 

“I bet you can make it super good and all, but I like my skin  _ on _ my bones. Or whatever skin is attached to.” Wade says hurriedly, sitting back on his knees and, when Nate’s grip on his wrist tightens again, starts gently trying to pry fingers off him. 

Nate’s hand drops back onto his chest and he breathes the word, “Breakfast,” all soft and dreamy, making Wade grit his teeth so he doesn’t laugh out loud the way he wants to. 

This wasn’t exactly what Wade had been hoping for when Nate had agreed to go for a drink, but seeing Nate off his (massive, half metal) tits was its own reward. Maybe he’d stick around a while. 

Can’t make mutually regretted but secretly cherished gay memories with your enemy-turned-closest-friend if he’s too smashed to give informed consent. 

Next time, less hard liquor. 

Probably.


	2. Bee's Knees

Wade's a little more straight forward the second time he convinces Nate to go out with him. It's still post-fight, still high adrenaline, Wade's lost the bottom half of his mask to a shotgun blast that had demolished his face the rest of the way from his nose down. His teeth are pretty much all grown back, but he's not too proud to play up the injury for sympathy points when he asks Nate to join him for drinks after.

The little wink-wink, nudge-nudge when he said 'and you can walk _me_ home this time' really should have been clear. No grope-y hand on the inner thigh, maybe, but he's not exactly a man of subtlety, is Wade.

And Nate's fond little head shake and chuckle -- his 'Wade being Wade' face -- really suggests he gets it. So does the big hand pressed against Wade's lower back as Wade leads the way into the bar.

Wade's been here before, but not for a long time. He installs Nate in a booth -- no slouching over on him this time, because Wade really doesn't want to have to try and haul all that meat up off the floor if he spills -- and saunters up to the bar, thinks for a second.

He'd been stupid last time. Zombies were a lot even for people who drank regularly and had their entire body through which to be dispersing all that booze. He needs something lighter. Beer.

No, beer's cheap and Nate might be a cheap date but Wade tries to have a little class on first dates. This one's a real date; he already wink-wink, nudge-nudged his man.

Something tasty. In a nice glass. Not beer-based.

He snaps his fingers on both hands, the sound muted by his gloves in a very anticlimactic way, and makes his order, politely ignoring the way the bartender leans away from him as he speaks. There's a lot of gross on him right now, freshly regrown lower jaw and all.

A few self conscious seconds of debate while the bartender starts putting the drinks together and he points at Nate and tells the man to take the drinks to him, then turns and shouts across the bar to Nate. "Gonna go freshen up! BRB!"

It doesn't occur to him that Nate would drink without him. He seemed perfectly content sitting in his dim little corner making faces about whatever he's reading in the little trifold specials placard on the table.

Anyway, Wade's a little preoccupied with his own dismay when he catches sight of himself in the greasy bathroom mirror. His mask is pretty much a total loss, he'd already accepted that, and he knew what was under the mask wasn't exactly anything anyone without nice thick beer goggles was going to be excited to take home. Or go home with, as the case may be.

But the whole top half of his costume is a wreck. Tacky drying blood splattered down the front and dribbled across the back from the spray when the shotgun had gone off. Cuts and little buck-shot holes pocking the chest. The bottom half is just liberally coated in dust, though the toe of one boot is also smeared with blood.

He always looks gross, but he certainly doesn't look like a guy on a date now. He looks like something that belongs at the bottom of the dumpster, where normal people aren't supposed to go.

But Nate had come with him here anyway. The thought fills him with resolve and some other squirmy warm feeling he elects not to think too hard about, and he turns the sink on and starts doing the best he can with what he's got.

Twenty minutes, one serious threat to the guy who barged in while Wade was scrubbing himself down in the sink, and half the roll of paper towels later, he still thinks he might be better off sneaking out the back, but he's as good as he's gonna get.

And Nate is still sitting, waiting for him.

With two empty martini glasses beside him. Making a horrible face as he nibbles on a lemon slice.

It's the high colour in his cheeks that really sells in. And the way he sits up and brightens when Wade slides into his side of the booth. No one sober is ever that happy to see Wade.

"I see the drinks came," Wade says, and he can't help smiling a little when Nate looks at the glasses like they might magically have refilled. "I kinda thought two glasses, two guys, easy math."

"You were _gone_ ," Nate says, and his tone is almost haughty, like Wade's made some dire accusation against which he must defend himself. "I wan'ned... wah... I didn' wanna waste it. Them." He pauses, thinks, and then a grin spreads over his face as he leans over the table. It creaks tiredly when he puts his weight on it. "They tas'e like _honey_."

"Bee's Knees," Wade grumbles to himself, trying not to be taken in by the cute drunk act. "You got drunk off a pair of Bee's Knees. I can't leave you alone. I mean I already shoulda known that, but I really _can’t_ , I let you out of my sight and two seconds later you're completely pickled. Plastered. Off your fuckin' tits."

Nate has himself sprawled over the tabletop, chest low to the polished wood under his palms, so he has to look up at Wade to give him the goofy grin he's giving. Wade tries not to find the look endearing, but there's something in the merry, vacant glint of those mismatched eyes that's very hard not to fall for. Which is a good portion of the fucking problem here.

"I can still take you home," Nate says, and the effort he has to put into enunciating each word so crisply is what really makes Wade cave. Done is done, there's no undrunking the man. "You wanna?"

"How 'bout we go back to your place, big guy? Get you squared away nice and safe, so no one's auntie has any rumors to spread."

Mismatched eyes, one bright, handsome blue and the other all glowy, squint up and him, and Nate draws back to sit up straight, studying Wade like they're discussing some important deal and he's trying to find the catch in Wade's proposal. "This time you have t' stay."

Wade opens his mouth to argue and Nate touches the back of his hand with his, awkwardly worming their fingers together until their intertwined, which robs Wade momentarily of whatever witty brush off was about to bubble out of him.

"S'not a date if y'just leave me."

This time when they bodyslide back into Nate's apartment, Wade really does make an effort not to knock Nate's crap off various shelves and tables. Nate pulls him to the bedroom -- gin must make him frisky, Wade figures -- their fingers still entwined, only letting go when he flops down into the bed. His eyes on Wade are expectant, not so sleepy as last time but still tired.

Wade sighs. He's not as shitty a person as he'd like people to think sometimes. Nate might be an eager little drunk beaver, but he's still _drunk_.

But Wade wants...

Well, he wants a lot of things. Maybe he can have some of them without being completely scummy about it.

"Seems super unfair that you got to drink all the booze and I'm the one getting your shoes off still," Wade says, crouching down to do just that. One then the other, tossed across the room because he might not be into dubious consent but he's still an asshole. "I mean really, you get to be drunk and goofy and have a nice little break from the stick-up-the-ass saviour routine, which is great and all, but all I get is --"

Nate's mouth tastes like gin and honey and spit and, faintly, blood. It takes Wade a minute to connect the dots between looking up at Nate, sitting on the edge of the bed watching Wade deal with his heavy-ass boots, and Nate grabbing the front of his costume and dragging him up to kiss. He's still playing catch up when Nate's tongue pushes into his mouth, but he's pretty much all up to speed when he's being dragged into the bed with Nate.

They're laying the wrong way, Nate's legs still half off the bed, and Wade tacks on a little extra self-loathing for the fact that he doesn't pull away immediately or really respond at all except to press his hands against Nate's shoulders and hold on. Nate starts the kiss and Nate ends it by dropping his head against the mattress and closing his eyes like he's ready to go to sleep just like this.

Which makes Wade, mentally cursing himself, sit up and put in the effort to shove and push and curse and cajole Nate into laying on the bed the right way, so Wade can throw a blanket over him. Nate makes a grab for him when he leans over to grab the blanket and Wade doesn't have the strength -- emotionally speaking -- to yank himself free.

He's a weak man, sometimes.

"I'm a weak man," he grumbles, letting himself be pulled down into Nate's ultra-firm, horrible bed, letting himself be wrapped up in Nate's big arms, letting himself become the little spoon he refuses to admit always wanting to be. "You better make me breakfast."

Nate snores against the back of Wade's neck.

Even his snores are kind of cute.

Goddamnit.


	3. Americano

Nate does _not_ make Wade breakfast. He wakes Wade up trying to get out of the bed to get to the bathroom, stumbling off with one hand against his temple and the other feeling the air in front of him because he's got his eyes clamped shut. Wade can guess why easily; Mr. Spartan Living has his blinds up so the morning sun can stream right in, and he didn't drink much water last night.

Serves him right, Wade thinks, burying his face in the pillows again, definitely not for one last big inhale of Nate's stink, just trying to go back to sleep, thanks. The sound of Nate's shower going on makes him huff out a breath. He wonders, sitting up, if he's supposed to stick around -- is this one of those things they're supposed to sit around and _talk_ about?

Speaking of gross things, he's still nasty from yesterday. Half a mask and smelling like bar-bathroom hand soap over sweat and grime. Usually it wouldn't bother him, but, really, it's as good an excuse to slip out while Nate's out of the room.

He thinks about leaving a note, but decides against it when he hears the water go off while he's tripping his way into his boots. No time for writing; he's out the door and down the street breathing the disgustingly fresh tropical air and ignoring the slant-wise looks his appearance gets from the early birds already going about whatever passes for business in mutant socialist utopia.

One nice thing about Providence is that few people actually stare at him, even if he's not wearing his mask or an image inducer. Another nice thing is that no one has ever broken into his apartment in Nate's cute little island haven, which means he can reliably find a change of clothes and a place to stash his gear when he comes here. A free apartment, free running water, very nice.

He takes a shower, changes into a fresh suit, and manages to catch the next boat off the island. If it feels like running away, well, all Nate has to do is say 'bodyslide by two' to drag him back. It doesn't happen.

Presumably, he's not the only one dodging that particular conversation.

A few weeks later he's enjoying the feeling of a job well done, wiping his katana on the very nice, very absorbent fabric of some dead guy’s kitchen towel. Super soft, nice; if he weren’t about to torch the place he’d totally take the one he’s not smearing with blood home with him. The bodyslide catches him by surprise; one minute he's in some hellhole secret base under a Cleveland steelyard and the next he's in some nice Manhattan floor-to-ceiling glass windows type apartment, eyes rolling ceilingward as he groans and turns to face Nate.

"I get the feeling you've been avoiding me."

Bastard. What kind of prick just jumps into a conversation without any sugar-coated pleasantries a normal guy can use to weasel out of the situation entirely. Wade sheaths his sword and crosses his arms and tries to look like he's not entirely uncomfortable.

"Some of us have jobs, Priscilla," He says archly. "You know, bills to pay, bullets to buy. You have my phone number."

"I've called. You didn't answer."

"Well I wasn't _home_ , was I? Again: jobs. Bills. Bullets. Someone's gotta pay for your drinks on our special little nights out."

Nate has the gall to look understanding, maybe a touch ashamed. "I'm sorry, Wade. I know last time didn't go how you'd hoped, and that's on me."

" _I_ wanted to be on you," Wade grumbles, and it's a little gratifying, the way Nate's brows shoot up and colour blooms faintly on his cheeks. "Listen, I'm not _mad_ or whatever. Even if you _did_ drink my drink, which, rude. Learning that you're the world's biggest featherweight is it's own reward, promise."

Nate takes a step closer, slow like he thinks Wade might make one of his famous murder attempts on him. When he doesn't, he takes another step, close enough to touch. "Perhaps we should try again. No drinks."

The gentle touch of Nate's hand -- big, heavy, definitely metal -- on Wade's shoulder is way more electrifying than it has any right to be. Wade's tempted to just go for it, throw caution to the wind, put his arms around Nate and climb his giant ass like a tree. He exhales, steadies himself, and then laughs.

"Try again, yes. No drinks, no."

He can't shake the feeling, even in the sultry evening light, that if Nate sees him out of his suit, right now, completely sober, nice lighting, he's going to run the other way. Wade wouldn't blame him, it's not like he's jerking off near any mirrors either. He feels like he needs to warm Nate up to the idea, because he's acting like Wade isn't a fucking freak and they _both_ know that's not true.

The puzzled look on Nate's face is priceless, and Wade's chuckle is more relaxed this time. He loops his arms around Nate's shoulders, hands locked at the back of Nate's thick neck, and waits until Nate's hand spreads over the small of his back. Could have gone lower, but they're working up to it.

"Lets just have some fun," Wade says. "I like _dating_ you. I like seeing you get all sloppy over two drinks. Just, you know. I'm not gonna do more than cuddle if you go and get sloshed."

Nate's smile is soft and slow, like he's flattered. He can't be that flattered -- no way in hell is Wade the first person to say he likes dating him -- but it's still so cute, the way his eyes crinkle up. Wade lets him pull the mask up, presses in close when that hand on his back nudges him closer, sliding one hand up and into Nate's hair as they kiss.

Kissing sober Nate is different than kissing him drunk in bed. Sober, Nate kisses like he's on a mission, intense and deep and focused. Wade isn't putting on anything when he curls his fingers into that thick silver hair and groans softly.

"You wanna catch a movie? I make a mean Americano."

Nate grins against his mouth and kisses him again, which Wade is happy to take as a yes. The weird look of confusion when Wade pulls back is easily pushed to the back of his mind when Nate laughs at Wade’s expression of disgust over his utter lack of anything resembling liquor in his cabinets.

One very short run through the bodega two blocks away from Nate’s high-rent fancy-pants Manhattan apartment, Wade’s got two heavy-bottomed highball glasses, a bottle of what he’s been assured is _good_ vermouth, and a bottle of Campari he personally thinks is overpriced for something that used to use bugs to have colour. Nate seems relieved when he returns, like he thought Wade had run off for no reason.

Wade elects not to think about why that should make him feel a weird mix of twisty, churny good and spiky nasty guilt.

“This is a _sipping_ drink,” he says when he hands Nate his glass, taking a gulp of his own as he steps around the larger man to check out what he’s got available for DVDs. He can hear the ice on the glass as Nate takes a tentative first sip, and then the hum of appreciation. “How is it possible that you have absolutely no movies that came out before 1945? Wizard of Oz? Casa-fuckin’-blanca? What the hell is this, you’re from the _future_. Did the TO kill your colour vision?”

They end up on the couch, Wade curled against Nate so he can watch him from the corner of his eye, sipping at his drink, _The Treasure of Sierra Madre_ playing. It’s not Wade’s usual speed of cinema, but Nate said he’d been meaning to watch it, and while it’s no Casablanca, it _does_ have Bogart.

Only when he heard the crunch of ice between teeth does Wade realize Nate’s finished his drink, and it seems rude not to make him another. He’s obviously clear headed, letting Wade take his glass. The whole point of Americanos is they’re easy to drink. Wade refills his own glass while he’s up, trying to tamp down his own excitement when Nate puts his arm around him, like as to keep him from getting up again after he settles back on the couch.

Twenty minutes later, neither of them are watching the movie and Wade has migrated from leaning on Nate to straddling his lap, enjoying the feel of stubble against his skin as they kiss. Nate’s glass is mostly melted ice with a bit of red-tinted vermouth bled into it, two drinks in and still not slurring, his kisses focused and hungry.

Wade actually jumps like he’s been tazed when his stupid cell phone buzzes in his pocket. Nate politely leans back against the couch and gestures that he should take the call, and since it _is_ his work phone, Wade begrudgingly does so.

“Oh holy fuck my fucking job shit shit shit. Uhh, don’t go anywhere. Stay exactly right there. I gotta just -- you know, work. I swear I’ll be right back.”

Nate looks uncertain. “Wasn’t your job --”

“Teleporter! Swear to god, just -- you’ll barely know I was gone. Five minutes. I take a couple pictures, start a little fire, I’ll be back in no time.”

It takes over an hour and Wade teleports back smelling like gasoline and bad barbecue. He ports back to Nate slumped on the couch, both highball glasses sitting on the coffee table in little puddles of condensation. The credits are rolling on the movie and Nate looks sulky with a new almost-empty glass in his hand. It’s a tall glass, one of the big tumblers from the kitchen.

He blinks rapidly when Wade grabs the remote and turns the television off. His drink slops onto the floor when he stands up and he half trips trying not to step on the spilled drink soaking into the artisan rug.

“You said _five_ minutes, Wade,” Nate says, his hands settling on Wade’s shoulders, then his neck, then either side of his face, like he’s checking to be sure Wade is solid. Or unhurt. “Five. Long time ago. I wa’ched th’ whole movie. An’ I made another drink. An’ you still didn’ come back. So I drank my drink an’ you _still_ weren’ back.”

Wade sighs. Nate’s squeezing his face a little, and the interior of the mask rubs weird on the scars of his cheek every time Nate shifts his hold. He doesn’t know who he’s angrier with -- himself for forgetting, Weasel for calling to remind him the contract had a deadline for payout, Nate for bodysliding him in the middle of work, or drinking while he was gone.

“How many more did you drink?”

It’s just vermouth. Vermouth is pussy stuff, barely alcohol at all. Well, more than wine, but still.

“One. B’ I didn’ know when you were comin’ back so I made a _big_ one.”

“Ah,” Wade says, gently pushing Nate’s hands off his face. “Sorry I left.”

Nate just grins, drunk-sly as he feels for the edge of the mask where it tucks into Wade’s collar. “You can make it up.” Wade thinks about stopping him when he starts pulling the mask up, the decides to help instead. Kisses are okay, and he might as well get _something_ out of tonight.

Well, other than the cold hard cash being transferred to his accounts after the job is processed.

In the bedroom, Nate sits cross-legged on the bed and watches Wade strip down to his boxers. He’s seen him undressed before, and it’s dark. It’s always easier in the dark. Only when Wade is undressed does Nate lay down, stretching out and opening his arms. His hands on Wade’s back are both warm and gentle, even the metal one, petting along the knobs of his spine and over the messy topography of his shoulders like he’s actually enjoying himself. Wade buries his face against Nate’s shoulder, too tired to be as mad about the third spectacular failure of a date as he thinks he should be.

“You have to stay this time,” Nate says, somber if not sober. “At least for breakfast.”

And Wade nods, digging his own fingers into Nate’s back, holding on.

Next time, no distractions. And no bottles where Nate can get them.


	4. Blue Balls

The failure of their fourth date is entirely _not_ Wade's fault.

Nate is a busy guy and Wade's an enthusiastic entrepreneur juggling a loaded travel schedule. Watching Nate muddled his way through frying them both eggs (and being privately impressed when there's no shell fragments on his plate at all) is fun. His vague grumpy 'I have a hangover but don't want to admit it' act is cute. Even cleaning up the mess from the previous night is nice, because a handful of glasses and a pale stain on Nate's rug aren't really a mess by Wade's standards.

But there's no time for lazy kisses and easy mornings feeling each other up in the shower. Halfway through breakfast, Nate sighs and frowns and tells Wade there's some minor emergency on Providence he needs to see to. Wade offers to help, because that seems like the kind of thing you're supposed to do when you're... whatever they're doing.

Fuckbuddies who can't seem to get to the fucking.

Sorta-romantically-inclined besties.

Evidently, whatever the fuckery is that's interrupted their easy Saturday morning, it's political. Not the kind of thing Nate can bring Wade in on. Or not the kind of thing he _wants_ to bring Wade in on; it's always hard to tell.

Wade feigns a put-upon sigh and shoved the rest of his toast in his mouth. At least bodysliding to Providence means a free shower, even if it doesn't come with the fun bits he'd been hoping for. He can shower, teleport back to the good ol' US of A, and pick of the threads of a new job. Best thing about big cities is, there's always someone willing to pay for someone else to die.

Three weeks and a day later (not that anyone's counting), Nate calls and asks if Wade's busy. Wade hums and acts like he's thinking while looking round the mess of his current safe house in Mexico City for his pants. When he admits that he's not really in the middle of anything that can't wait, Nate asks if Wade would be interested in joining him for some party thing he's obligated to attend.

"There's an open bar," Nate offers, like Wade's the one who needs to be bribed, and then, softer, "I miss you."

Wade refuses to feel guilty. They're both busy, it's not like anyone's avoiding anyone else.

"How fancy I gotta dress?" he poses the question like he's not strapping his gear on in preparation to bodyslide to wherever Nate is. Like he's not eager to show Mutant Jesus how mutual that 'miss you' sentiment was. "Cuz I really only got the one suit and I don't think your politician friends would be too appreciative of the look, even if it _does_ make my ass look fantastic."

The appreciative little hum he gets for that line tells him all he needs to know about Nate's opinion on that subject. It's kind of flattering, and he grins when Nate says, "I'm sure you can find something more... formal that highlights similar features. It's black tie optional."

Ugh, suit and tie. The things he did for this man, unbelievable. "Kind of short notice for fancy dress," he grumbles, and then smothers a laugh when Nate, in total sincerity, apologizes.

A little creative bargaining with the tailor up the block from Wade's New York apartment gives him a decently fitted black suit with a _very_ nice-to-touch red button down under the jacket. A black silk tie and red silk pocket square complete the look. His mask tucks right into the shirt collar and leather gloves hide his hands. No image inducer necessary.

When he bodyslides to Nate's nice office -- and oh, there's a very sturdy desk in here that gives Wade some very smart ideas for future fun-times -- Nate looks him over with plain appreciation and tells him the mask is unnecessary. Wade would beg to differ, but Nate kisses him while he's pulling it off, and that makes arguing very difficult. When they leave the office together, Wade's mask stays tossed on Nate's desk.

The party is nice in a 'we think we're more important than we are' sort of way. Lots of pretty rich ladies in clingy dresses that show more cleavage than Wade thinks they would if this comic weren't being drawn for horny teenagers to read. Lots of old rich dudes talking about incomprehensible political shit Wade thinks would be easier to listen to if Marvel didn't insist on trying to world-build through overheard conversations.

They circulate and Wade plays fancy crowd-scene bingo in his head while Nate talks about whatever it is driving his personal plot these days. Wade's a little surprised to recognize a few people there, most notably Domino herself in a very clingy, very slinky black dress.

Yeah, Wade can see the appeal. Totally gets why she's the major canon love interest.

And yet Nate's here with him. Obviously had the choice, if Dom is here anyway, but had asked Wade to come.

Wade suspects shenanigans.

And maybe it's spite that does it. Maybe Dom is the 'woman scorned' Wade keeps hearing about, because she's the one who brings shots into the mix, after they've been standing around chatting for a while. By the time she brings drinks up at all, the music has changed from sedated orchestral to contemporary pop, more than a few bodies on the dance floor. She seems amused when Nate hesitates to accept and Wade sighs, resigned.

What she returns from the bar with is a small _serving tray_ of shots, most of them bright blue and just a little bubbly. Four more are just clear spirits, which Domino quickly claims for herself, gesturing for them to help themselves to the rest, smirking. "Enjoy your blue balls, boys," She says, tipping Wade a wink as she throws back her own drink.

Sighing, Wade follows suit, watching Nate carefully grip one little glass. It's a sweet shot, barely astringent at all. He'd be more hopeful that it wouldn't be enough to get Nate turnt if it weren't for the fact that there's three more for him to drink and Wade had seen him after two Bee's Knees. Hell, after a few Americanos, the weakest cocktail in the history of cocktails.

Half an hour later, all glasses empty, watching Wade do his damnedest to keep Nate on his own two feet, Dom has the good grace to look surprised and a little guilty. Nate's standing behind Wade, his arms wrapped around Wade’s waist, swaying him in half-assed rhythm to the music now thrumming through the low lit room.

“Wow he’s really feeling it, huh?”

“It’s the TO,” Wade defends, because Nate can’t exactly defend himself. Nate hums behind him, cheek resting on the back of Wade’s head, hands resting low on Wade’s stomach. Evidently whiskey dick isn’t too much of a concern because Nate’s pushing something warm and firm against Wade’s ass, and Wade would put money on it not being a gun.

That’s about the point where Wade figures it’s time to go home. Probably less damaging for Nate to disappear early than for him to start getting slutty in public. At least Nate had already circulated a bit before they’d joined Domino, and Nate tended to be exhaustingly responsible about things he considered important. it was unlikely that he would have agreed to drink with Dom if he hadn’t already done whatever it was he’d come here to do -- God knows it wasn’t to be social. There’s always an ulterior motive with Nate.

And anyway, Wade figures half-dragging, half-guiding Nate through the dark of his apartment, one perk of hanging out with Deadpool was always going to be that any faux pas would be blamed on him, not Nate. So if anyone was offended by Nate leaving early, or Nate finish whatever he’d meant get done, it would be Wade’s fault anyway.

He helps Nate with his tie and his jacket, listens to the thud, one then two, of Nate’s smart dress shoes hitting the floor while he draws the blinds down. He should get Nate some real curtains. Blackouts, maybe, if he’s going to keep drinking like the plot revolves around it. When he lays down beside the big idiot, Nate drags him in close and wraps himself around Wade’s back, kissing at his neck and pushing his hand up under Wade’s undershirt, spreading calloused fingers over the waxy, nasty skin of Wade’s stomach.

It’s not Wade’s fault this time, and that somehow makes it worse. He rests his hand over Nate’s and feels the big guy start to relax, breathing slowing.

At least the sun won’t wake them up in the morning.

Wade does  _not_ enjoy his blue balls.


	5. Crazy Goat

It's a couple days later, Wade holed up in his rent-free Providence apartment, not sulking or cursing his luck or being upset about four goddamn dates ruined by Nate being the cheapest drunk in history, when someone knocks on his door.

This happens on occasion. Not often, and rarely for any reason Wade _wants_  to deal with. Sometimes an in person invitation to some weird hippy event, mural painting or park yoga, sometimes a neighbour asking him to turn his television down. Wade's learned through the years of living on his own anywhere that if you ignore the knocking, most folks go away. The ones who don't are usually cops, and Wade's pretty sure he hasn't broken any of the rules here recently.

Another knock, heavier. Wade turns up the television. 

He hears someone huff, and then heavy footsteps. Score. Wade isn't in the mood to look at some idiot hippy asking him to be social. No one really wanted him to join the group, that was half the fun of the comics; when he felt like be social, he got to realize for the fifty-billionth time that he was the dictionary definition of social pariah. Hell, Nate even being willing to go out for drinks with him felt more like the kind of shit in one of the more long-winded UST fanfics. 

Five times Wade thought he was gonna get laid but just watched Nate get wasted instead. Except it's only happened four times.

The knocking on the door is back, louder, and Wade sits up straight, eyes wide.

Five times.

It's a goddamn fanfic, it's _gotta_  be a fic because Marvel sure as hell isn't going to give on-screen credence to his pansexuality, not when they're getting plenty of diversity points with just the claim and no proof. Why take the risk when you're making bank off the insinuation?

More knocking.

"I'm having an epiphany, go the fuck away!"

God, thinking back it's almost too clear. Like the author thinks they're being cute or something. First time, Nate can't even do one drink. Then two cocktails. Three Americanos. How many shots did each of them drink at that party? Wade doesn't remember for sure, but he'd put money on it being four. 

"Wade, please. I brought takeout."

Oh christing hell. Of course it's Nate. Right on schedule.

"Please don't make me force the -- oh." Note blinks down at him, looking a little shocked when Wade yanks the door open. Wade realizes he's wearing his boxers and the nice-touch shirt from the party. Had he taken it off since coming back here? He can't recall. "I, uh. Brought pizza." He lifts the box from the place up the block, then lifts his other hand, showing the six pack of beer.

"You ain't slick," Wade grumbles, grabbing Nate's wrist and yanking him into the apartment. He doesn't resist, looking more puzzled than ever at Wade's comment, but since it wasn't aimed at him, Wade feels no need to clarify.

A six pack, ha. Yeah how was that meant to go, one for Wade and five for Nate. See he can do math too.

Authors and their dumb tricks. Fourth wall is getting mighty thin these days, is what Wade thinks. Better watch their dumb backs, is what authors better do.

Settled on the couch with the pizza open on the coffee table-slash-footrest, Nate watches Wade take a huge bite of his first slice, his own oozing cheese over his fingers because he's holding it like no one's ever shown him how to eat pizza before. He's adorable, in a frustrating cocktease cheap date kind of way. 

After a minute, he looks away and says, "I've been worried. You haven't left this place in days."

"I figured out th' puzzle," Wade says around a mouthful of anchovies and pineapple. He swallows and licks his lips, setting the slice on his knee so he can grab a pair of bottles from the little box carton thing. Some weird fancy brand, Crazy Goat. "Bad news is you gotta drink all these by yourself."

Silver brows draw in tight, that ever-present 'I-want' line between them deepening as he frowns. Nate's a real dreamboat, not just action hero good looks but cute to boot. Totally unfair, but Wade wasn't exactly going to complain when he was sitting on Wade's couch, sharing pizza and beer and being puppy-dog confused about the requirements of tired fanfic tropes.

"I bought them for you, Wade. I know things keep... going awry when we're alone together. I'm not stupid enough to have missed the connection."

Wade pushes the bottle on Nate and studies his own. Cider, not beer. Fancy. Probably tasty.

A big, warm, kinda greasy hand settles awkwardly on his thigh, just above his knee. Nate’s evidently that rare breed of guy who’s actually less smooth when he’s sober, and that’s kind of endearing. Part of Wade is very eager to throw literary convention to the wind, toss his slice and his bottle back on the coffee table, and put himself in Nate’s lap. Part of him thinks that’s a very good idea.

But that hand is resting so careful on his skin, and Wade isn’t sure if that’s just Nate being a pussy about asking for what he wants, or if it’s the most Nate can manage when stone-cold sober and aware of what a fucking horror show Wade is. It’s a better try than most people are willing to make, especially without money in the mix, but Wade’s stomach feels full of unpleasant writhing things, not butterflies but maybe snakes, because there’s a million and one what-ifs to sort through. 

He’s made peace with looking like something scraped off the side of the road and set on fire. Well, made peace in the sense that he’s fine with keeping himself covered in public and pretending like needing an image inducer to go to Walmart is barely cause for a depression session. 

The idea of Nate, sober, seeing him and barely being able to touch him, makes Wade want to lock himself in a box and spend a few years at the bottom of the ocean. 

_ So what happens next time? If it’s a five-times-fic, what happens next time? _

That is future Wade’s problem.

“C’mon, trust me, big guy. Look, I’ll drink one with you. Pizza, beer,  _ Maude _ ?” He waggles what passes for eyebrows. “Drink with me. Everything’s better after a couple bottles with a pal.”

Nate sighs, but the top pops off both their bottles, and when Wade holds his out, Nate clinks the bottles together. They sit next to each other, not silent -- Wade’s not silent for long most of the time and certainly not while watching Maude -- but companionable. When Wade scoots close, Nate raises his arm so Wade can sink against his side.

Wade eats most of the pizza.

Nate drinks all but one of the beers.

By the time the last episode on the DVD plays, Nate’s managed to pick open the buttons from the bottom of Wade’s nice shirt to about Wade’s navel, using one hand and, Wade suspects, cheating with telekinesis. When Wade pulls himself off the couch, Nate’s eyes on him are bright and interested and hazy-drunk. 

Five fancy ciders. 

They stumble into Wade’s bedroom, Nate taking every pause as an excuse to kiss. Even drunk he knows the drill: sit on the bed, shoes off, lay down and make room. This time, Wade doesn’t have to undress, and Nate moves much quicker to give Wade space to stretch out beside him. Wade’s bed is far narrower than either of Nate’s, but when they both lay on their sides, it’s not much of an issue.

It’s kind of cozy, Nate kissing his shoulder as his hand slips between the open sides of the shirt to spread eagerly over the bare skin. 

Wade closes his eyes and deliberately decides not to worry about what comes after waking.


	6. A Nice Cold Glass of OJ

Wade wakes up alone. At some point in the night he’d rolled to face the interior of the bed, and his arm is still curled close to his own chest like it had been scrunched between him and Nate. Not opening his eyes, Wade rolls onto his back and stretches his legs out.

If the last few months were really driven by some cliched fanfic narrative, it's over now. Maybe that means Nate will wise up and drop the whole idea of hooking up. Go back to their weirdly intense brand of friendship with plenty of double entendre and innuendo laced in their conversation that neither of them will act on.

Yeah that sounds about right. Nate has an island to run and a world to save and Wade's maybe along for part of that ride but also plenty busy with his own shit. Scraping together jobs when he's still sort of blacklisted. Doing some jobs just for the fun of watching frightened rich douchebags beg for their lives when he knows well enough that they've never shown another human being a shred of mercy ever. Look at them side by side, Wade's really not the kind of guy Nate should be getting involved with anyway.

Yeah, if this is all just a break from their regular narrative inspired by some asshole's love of unresolved tension and getting Wade's hopes up, it's the sort of fic that sticks to the five chapter narrative. Maybe baits readers with a promised sixth chapter where they hope to see some actual action, but then just posts recipes for the cocktails Nate went off his tits on, or a long author’s note about how no one is ever going to write realistic fiction about _Deadpool_ of all people getting laid, I mean have you _seen_ the way they draw his skin, he's _so_ gross.

Yeah.

Something clatters over by the doorway and Wade cracks an eye open, hand jerking instinctively toward the gun he keeps strapped behind the headboard.

Nate smiles sheepishly from the bedroom door, a tray in his hand. He looks... Wade thinks a writer would say 'artfully mussed' or some poetic shit like that, but what he really looks is like a guy who woke up, maybe scrubbed the sleep off in the kitchen sink, and decided to cook breakfast for whoever he'd fallen asleep with. Domestic and kinda grungy and way too soft for the guy who's supposed to be straightening out the world.

"I didn't want to wake you up," He says, and his voice is soft and low and a little rough like he's still tired. Wade wonders if he would have left to go get himself some aspirin or anything -- Wade doesn't exactly bother with that kind of stuff anymore. "I thought I heard you getting up though. I made... I tried to make pancakes."

As he talks he's moving, and all Wade can think to do is push himself to sit with his back against the pillows, sheet thrown over his lap. He realizes with a twist of nerves that his shirt is open now all the way, exposing the mats of scar tissue and tumor that bloom and fade and reappear elsewhere in a slow, unending shift. Wade gave up trying to memorize the sensitive spots years ago, because by the time he remembers one, it's gone, moved somewhere wholly different.

What Nate hands Wade off the tray is... not pancakes. It looks kind of like a plate of really gross scrambled eggs that someone drizzled syrup over. Nate sits with a second plate of the same that he puts in his own lap, leaving the tray between them on the bed with two glasses of orange juice on it.

"Wow," Wade says. "I mean, A for effort, but you're like... alarmingly bad at pancakes."

Nate grins and looks down at his own plate and mutters for Wade to shut up. Wade feels like his brain is playing catch-up again even as he grins and laughs and takes a bite. He’s willing to add points because he knows damn well he didn’t have any eggs, which meant Nate had to sneak out and get some and decide to come back. That’s dedication.

"Call it three star service. Puts in the effort, but ultimately this is a desecration of breakfast food and an utter waste of my last box of Bisquick."

"Are you going to eat it or talk at it," Nate says gruffly, picking at his own mess.

For a few minutes, they sit in companionable silence and eat scrambled pancakes. When the plates are empty and they've finished their orange juice, Nate takes the dishes and piles them on the tray and sets them on the floor, climbing back into the bed with Wade. He swings one massive leg over Wade’s thighs, bracing his hands on the top of the headboard, effectively boxing Wade in. There are several ways Wade could still get away if he wanted, all of them violent, a few of them lethal, but he keeps still.

“You said yesterday that you’d had an epiphany,” Nate rumbles, oblivious to the fact that Wade’s brain is shorting out with the circumstances of their proximity. There’s a spot on Nate’s neck where the TO works itself under the flesh that changes colour as Nate breathes. Inhale, the skin draws thin and pale. Exhale, it’s red and sore looking. Nate brings one big hand to the edge of Wade’s jaw, gently coaxing him to meet his eyes. “I think I’ve had one of my own.”

The kiss is slow and open and warm; Nate tastes like syrup and orange juice. Of course he doesn’t have funky morning breath. Fucking perfect mutant Jesus. His hair is soft under Wade’s fingers when he brings his hands up to cup the back of Nate’s head, heart pounding in his chest.

The author must not be paying attention. This can’t be part of the script.

Nate licks his lips when he breaks for air, like he’s savouring the taste of Wade. His eyes on Wade are bright and fond and clear, even the blank glowy one. He’s not drunk, or out of his mind, or sick. He is, however, rubbing his thumb on the sweet spot just under Wade’s ear, unbothered by the gross texture of Wade’s skin.

“You’ve been trying to get me drunk,” Nate says, talking over Wade trying to do the mental math by which this works in any known universe. “I’m not entirely certain why, but you think I wouldn’t want this sober.”

He doesn’t sound angry about it, even if the way he says it makes it sound like Wade just thinks he’s shallow, not rational and possessed of functioning eyes. He sounds a little confused and a little amused but mostly kind of sad about the idea.

“Most people aren’t super interested in hopping in the sack with someone they know is weapons grade ugly,” Wade says. “So sue me for trying to be a good friend and help you find your beer goggles.”

“And yet I pursued you sober,” Nate says, the corner of his mouth twitching up. Wade scoffs and looks away, muttering for a moment before Nate starts kissing him again; kissing his temple and his cheek and nipping the edge of his ear so Wade can’t possibly help tilting his head to one side to offer more room. “I forget sometimes.”

“Forget what?” Wade manages, doing his damnedest not to whine when Nate nudges his shirt off one shoulder so he can get at Wade’s neck. It’s a little hard to focus on conversation when he’s trying not to embarrass himself. He can justify it if he has to, too long with not enough human contact, but nobody likes an early shooter when they’re finally trying to get to the main event. “What d’you forget?”

Nate’s practically in his lap now, not just straddling him but resting his ass on Wade’s knees so he can curl over him and try to suck hickies into his neck, which he has to know won’t stick. “I forget,” Nate says, pausing to bite at that spot his thumb had been petting earlier, just under Wade’s ear, “how obsessed you are with your skin.”

That’s not really fair. Neither is the rough hand slipped under the other side of Wade’s shirt, feeling him up in tight squeezes that give way to a gentle sort of massage only to tighten almost unbearably hard again.

“I used to be hot,” Wade says through grit teeth, trying to ruck Nate’s shirt up his back so he can feel over all that skin and metal without thin cotton in the way. “I used to be so _hot_ , Nate.”

Wade gives up and lets himself whine when Nate promptly, and with no trace of a joke, says, “You still are.”

It’s not fair. This is harassment. He absolutely does not have to put up with this, it’s in his contact, no bullshit lies about his appearance. “Shut up,” he pants, tugging more instantly at Nate’s shirt. There’s a small measure of gratification when a seam pops and Nate makes a soft, annoyed sound in his throat as he sits up and pulls the damn thing off, throwing it on the floor with their dirty dishes. He’s perfectly yielding when Wade yanks him back down for another kiss.

Nate’s big, and he’s _heavy_. Wade’s not surprised that Nate can just move Wade around how he wants him, but he _is_ a little surprised about how okay he is with that. Nate grabs hold of him and rolls, making the bed groan in protest as he settles on his back with Wade sprawled across him so he can strip away the rest of Wade’s shirt.

He makes Wade feel small, and he somehow does it in a way that feels good. Wade feels small and wanted and _good_ , god, so good. Nate’s wearing some kind of thin cotton capri-type pants, with a drawstring waist. They should look stupid but, given how easy it is to worm his hand between the waistband and Nate’s skin, Wade’s willing to forgive the fact that they somehow don’t.

Big and heavy in all the right ways, Wade thinks, groaning when Nate gets both hands on his ass and squeezes. It feels like a reward more than reprimand, so he keeps his hand between them, awkward angle and all, rolling his palm, working Nate hard against his own flat stomach.

“Always thought you had a great ass,” Nate says, moving them both again so he can dumb Wade on the bed and get to his feet, stepping eagerly out of his trousers. When he kicks them aside, one of the drinking glasses tips over and rolls across the floor, but Wade’s hardly going to complain, telekinesis yanking his boxers off him before he can think to do it himself.

Normally, Wade would be on his knees. He’d blow Nate until Nate was begging to cum and then gauge the waters to see if he should try for a fuck or just let the man finish in his mouth. Sex for Wade hasn’t been primarily about his own pleasure for a long time; he finds it’s best to take what he can get while making the other person feel good and do his best to make a good impression if he wants a chance at seconds.

It’s not like that with Nate. Nothing is ever normal with Nate; he has to make everything better, more special, more meaningful, more _more_. He uses his TK again to fish the little box out from under Wade’s bed, shifting through various toys to fish out a half-used bottle of Sliquid. Judging by the face he pulls, it’s leaked. Wade laughs, locking his hands behind Nate’s neck again and pulling himself up to kiss the frown away.

The little box joins the rest of the crap on the floor, and Wade really had expected Nate to be one of those people who tried to keep neat about this stuff, put a towel down first, whole nine yards, but no. Evidently not.

Thankfully not.

Pushing Wade to lay back against the pillows, Nate grabs an extra one to wedge under Wade’s hips, pops the lube open, and without fanfare gets to work slicking Wade up.

Two fingers slick with barely-above-cold lube shoved into his ass has no business feeling so good, and yet Wade finds himself choking on his own spit, toes curling. He grabs his cock, fingers tight on the base like he’s planning on ripping it off, eyes closed as Nate fingers him.

He doesn’t seem too concerned with stretching Wade much, which is fine -- with the healing factor, half the time trying to stretch before getting fucked doesn’t work anyway; he’s tight enough again by the time he’s got the toy du jour in place that he may as well not have bothered. Nate focuses more on getting Wade wet and desperate, deliberately avoiding touching his prostate after the first time he grazes it.

Wade wants to call him a bastard, tell him to hurry up, ends up arching against his hand instead, like a goddamn marionette twitching on its strings. Nate’s fingers twitch and curl just so and Wade gasps and bucks. He can’t help it.

“So good for me,” Nate breathes, and christ but he already sounds wrung out, hungry and eager. His voice is so low Wade feels it echoing in his ribs, rattling around his skull, praise going straight to Wade’s straining dick. “So good, look at you. You’d cum just from this if I told you too, wouldn’t you?”

Laughter puts knobs on Wade’s exhale, breathy and weak. He feels drunk, sounds it when he says, “Yeah,” like he’s lost and doesn’t know anything anymore but compliance. Maybe he is, maybe he doesn’t. A third finger presses in almost thoughtfully, and Wade groans like he’s been stabbed, whole body rocking toward Nate’s hand.

“Don’t,” Nate orders, and Wade realizes that his TO hand is wrapped hard around his own length, not stroking, just holding himself, like the sight of Wade laid out with three fingers stretching him wide is so good he’s close too. “I’ve been waiting too long for you to shoot off before I even get inside you.”

There’s no time to unpack _that_. It should be illegal, saying shit like that while telling someone not to cum, but no matter how Wade whines or twists, Nate only gives him enough to bring him right to the edge. No further. He knows how he looks, pathetic and gross and desperate, ridiculous in all the worst ways, but it feels so good. Too good to be self conscious.

It’s amazing. Satisfying in a way sex hasn’t been in so long. So good Wade feels like he might cry, a peculiar tight heat building in his chest and throat so he actually does sob when Nate’s fingers pull back out of him.

“Shh,” Nate says, and it’s not patronizing at all, just sweet as he moves, leaning in to kiss Wade’s brow. There’s barely time to adjust, it’s a moment, the space of a few breaths, between horrible _nothing, empty, want_ and then _so much, oh God, too much, Nate -- Nate -- Nate_.

Nate’s cock had felt thick and hot in Wade’s hand, the lack of TO showing a disturbing cowardice in character design but otherwise exactly as disgustingly perfect as the rest of the man. Feeling him push in hard and not quite fast enough, Nate feels huge and unreal, punching the air of of Wade’s lungs and filling him to the throat with dick. There’s no room in him for air or words or thoughts, no room for anything but Nate, stretching him so wide it hurts in the best way.

It’s been a long time. A long time since Wade felt so full, so sensitized at the hands of another person. This isn’t a transaction, Nate’s not been paid to be here and he’s not watching the clock to see when he can leave. Nate’s slept in Wade’s bed, cooked him breakfast twice, kissed him like it’s the only thing in the world that matters, and now finally, finally, he’s fucking him, and Wade doesn’t know what to do with himself.

Wade’s been lonely for a long time, and it feels -- God, it feels wrong and awful and _miserable_ , to be only able to admit that to himself now, with Nate spread over him, filling him, surrounding him, making Wade feel so small and treasured and _loved_ that he can’t help the awful noises working their way out of his throat, grateful and desperate and terrified of the end.

With Nate’s arms braced on the pillows to either side of Wade’s head, Nate manages a sloppy variation of a kiss, mouth hot and wet against Wade’s. He kisses like he’s as desperate as Wade, leaving them both gasping and breathless as his hips snap against Wade’s ass again and again and again. Wade’s got one hand clutching with bruising force on Nate’s flesh bicep, the other tangled in the mussed sheets so hard he wouldn’t be surprised to find he’d torn a hole in them.

Nate fills him so good, stretches him so perfectly, Wade’s not sure he can take anything more. His hips burn, legs stretched too wide to make room for Nate, and he feels like his burning from his core to the tips of his fingers and toes, consumed by a fire that pulses in time with the jerk of Nate’s hips. He doesn’t really know what he expected sex with Nate to be like, but it’s not this -- not rough and desperate and unrefined, not needy like Nate’s been just as starved for this as he has.

Teeth find his throat, bites that turn to kisses that grow teeth again, until Wade finds his voice, moaning at the ceiling for more, for harder, for _anything_.

He’s so hard he hurts, tense and leaking and needful, and the feeling of metal wrapping around his cock is so good Nate only gets a few loose pumps in before he’s cumming, hot and forceful and messy, soiling the TO and smearing between both of them.

“God, you look good like that,” Nate growls, grabbing hold of his hips, changing the angle, leaving sticky prints on Wade’s hip where the TO touches as he pounds ruthlessly into him. Wade feels overwhelmed, pliant, so good and wanted and usable, like he was made for this, just this. It doesn’t take much more before the rhythm falters, Nate tensing all over and spilling deep inside.

Holding himself up seems to take more effort for Nate now, and with a shudder he disengages their body and rolls to the side. The headboard clacks one more time into the wall, and Wade is willing to put money on finding the wall scraped and dented later. Right now, he’s trying to figure out how to get his heart rate down to something less dire.

When he turns his head to look at Nate, Nate is panting, manages something like a chuckle before leaning in and kissing Wade gently. He kisses him like he can’t get enough. “You okay,” Nate asks, brushing the cleaner flesh-and-bone hand over Wade’s gnarled cheek. “That wasn’t…”

Cutting off Nate’s stupid questions with kisses is nice. Wade rolls them as much as he can, so Nate’s crowded against the wall, and he kisses him until neither of them can breathe. “God, if that’s your version of sweet morning sex I cannot _wait_ for nasty kinky stuff.”

Nate’s smile is sunny and sweet. No regrets, no disappointment, nothing but a relieved sort of pleasure.

“Next time,” he says, cupping his hand against the back of Wade’s head and drawing him down for more kisses, “We do this somewhere with a bigger bed.”

“Or,” Wade grins, “We could try the shower?”


End file.
